


yours

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 14:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16703896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: “I really am so very glad you came,” she said softly.“Well,” said Jack. “You asked.”(post-3x08; in England)





	yours

**Author's Note:**

> not gonna lie, i’m a little nervous about posting this. it’s my first time writing phryne and jack and We’ll Just Have To See How It Goes, I Guess.
> 
> definitely intending to write more, tho! because! i love them! so much!

The first time Phryne and Jack kissed—properly, without subterfuge or irritable fathers—was when his ship docked in England and she caught him in her arms and realized she might not ever want to let go of this man. And it was a frightening feeling, after so many years of never letting herself be tethered to another. A year ago, she might have pulled away, or pushed him away, or simply taken him to bed without talking things through beforehand.

But Jack was right. They had always been a waltz, slow and close, and he had always been letting her lead. It was such a small thing, but—there weren’t many men who would wait, solemn and solid and gentle and true, for Phryne to trust them. Most of the men she picked were very deliberately the sort who _weren’t_ interested in something long-term.

When Jack broke the kiss, it was to rest his forehead against hers. He didn’t say anything for a handful of minutes; he seemed a bit overcome. “I wasn’t sure what I would find when I came here,” he said finally, carefully.

“I wasn’t sure either,” said Phryne, and raised a hand to his face. She was unused to being able to touch him without pretense; she liked the way his eyes closed as her gloved hand stroked his cheek. “I meant it when I said _come after me,_ you know, but—I’m afraid I didn’t think very far beyond that.”

Jack smiled slightly. “I suppose you’ve never really needed to,” he said.

Phryne stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his, simply because she _could_. There had been too many times in the last year alone where she had been tragically unable to kiss this man. Looking at him reminds her of all the times, and in all the extremely inconvenient locations, she had very much wished to kiss Jack Robinson. Most of them, ridiculous as it was, were within the context of unsolved murder mysteries—

“Oh!” she said, remembering. She’d been working with a terribly distraught young boy to track down his missing uncle, the aunt having died under extremely mysterious circumstances a few weeks prior to the uncle’s disappearance. It had been a bit taxing to do it alone, but now _Jack was here,_ it’d be just like old times, and there was a thoroughly inappropriate excitement rising in her chest at the very thought. “There’s a murder case that could _really—_ ”

“Miss Fisher, I took all my leave, paid and unpaid,” said Jack with amused patience. “Happy as I am to help you with any case work that requires my assistance, is it possible for us to have at least one day that does not in some way involve murder?”

Something in Phryne twisted in an ugly, frightened way. She didn’t know how to explain it. “Yes,” she said, and tried to smile. “Yes, of course. You came all this way, and—I certainly owe you one day, at least—”

But something in Jack’s face changed. Very gently, he tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “Phryne,” he said. “You owe me nothing. My choice to come here is mine. Your choice to be with me is yours.”

It was such a small thing to say, but somehow it was exactly what she needed to hear. Phryne turned her face into his hand and understood why he had looked so blissful at her touch. She couldn’t remember the last time being touched had felt—like this. Like he didn’t _want_ something from her.

“The last time I was in love,” she said, “there wasn’t much room for _choice._ ”

She felt Jack’s hand tremble against her cheek. Perhaps she had been a bit too honest for a bustling port, but they never _had_ done things the right way. “I expect you loved him, Phryne,” he said unsteadily, “but if he loved you, he would have known enough to let you make your choices.”

* * *

 

He did end up going with her to track down the missing uncle, and they solved a murder or two. This helped. From the beginning of her time in Melbourne, Phryne’s relationship with Jack had grown and changed in the context of case work and crime scenes and late-night break-ins; it eased the transition into Whatever The Hell This Was Right Now.

The last time she had been in love, she had let her guard down in a way she didn’t know if she ever could again. She had worried, early on, that she was lacking because of this—that Jack would be frustrated with what she might never be able to give him.

It was easy to control sensual encounters, but it was nearly impossible to control matters of the heart. It was why Phryne had had no intention of committing herself to any man. It was why Phryne had always placed distance, deliberate, determined, between herself and her lovers, even if she did genuinely care for them.

But: a man held a knife to Phryne’s throat and Jack’s face went white. The police showed up in the nick of time, took their statements, arrested the gentleman, and Jack reached out to Phryne and very gently touched her throat. She was reminded of a similar occasion weeks ago; was struck by the intimacy of the repeated gesture.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she said, trying to laugh it off, “I’ve had much worse.”

“I’m well aware,” said Jack. His hand was shaking. “Might I humbly request that you stay alive long enough for me to enjoy my extended leave?”

“Just that long?” Phryne quipped.

“That long, and then some,” said Jack, and pressed a solid, sturdy kiss to her forehead.

* * *

 

Jack had night terrors. Phryne had never known this. They weren’t loud—Jack, even when frightened out of his wits, was rarely a loud man—but he stiffened, then began to shake compulsively, still half-asleep.

Phryne sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp. She was no stranger to nightmares. She wanted to reach out to him, but she knew how frightening it could be to be touched too soon out of a nightmare. Two weeks after leaving Rene, Mac had heard her bitten-off scream and come running, and Phryne had been so afraid at a touch in the dark, however gentle—

Jack jerked himself up into a sitting position. Phryne had never seen him so vulnerable. “Jack,” she said softly. “Is it all right if I touch you?”

Jack’s eyes were fixed on her like she was the only bright point in the room. “Yes,” he said.

Phryne touched his chest with both hands, feeling the unsteady flutter of his breath. The near-nonstop murder cases had left them with no time to be anything close to intimate, which meant that this was the most honest intimacy she had ever had with Jack Robinson. She didn’t count clumsy situations in the midst of cases, no matter how delightful and titillating they might have been at the time. _This_ was something else.

She waited until his breathing had steadied, and then she slid her hands up his chest, tangling them gently in his hair. She leaned in, bumping her nose against his; he let out a shaking, breathless laugh. “Jack,” she said unsteadily. She wanted to say _my Jack,_ but that brought back memories of _my Phryne_ and what it had meant back then. No matter what she felt for him, she wouldn’t (couldn’t) claim him.

“Yours,” said Jack.

A swell of startled joy rose in Phryne. “I shouldn’t—” she began.

“Love is freely given,” said Jack. “Yours, Phryne, always, all right?”

He still looked a little out of it, a little drowsy from the night terrors, but she knew he meant what he was saying. And she _trusted_ him, yes, but she still didn’t know if she could give him her love quite so freely. “I don’t know—” she began.

“Dear Miss Fisher,” said Jack, and oh, he had that look in his eyes that he always got before he was quoting Shakespeare or telling her she knew what to do, “we’ll give each other what we can. That’s more than enough for me, I promise.”

“How did you know I’m so frightened?” Phryne asked, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. She felt as laid bare as she had with a Sarcelle between them and an unexpected kiss still lingering on her lips.

“It doesn’t take a genius to notice you getting all jumpy when I brush close to saying _I love you,_ ” said Jack, who seemed to be waking up.

Phryne drew back at the words, and he raised an eyebrow as if to say _see?_ It made her smile a little. “You know me quite well, then,” she said.

“I like to think so,” said Jack.

Phryne removed her hands from Jack’s hair, letting him lie back into the pillows. She settled herself against his chest, letting him stroke her hair. “I don’t know where we go from here,” she said uncertainly. “It was rather a lot easier to be staggeringly romantic without much consequence. I’ve not had to work at the follow-through before.”

Jack considered this. Then he said, “Well, it’s not as though you’re the only one who doesn’t have much practice with working at relationships.”

“At least you know what it’s like to stick around,”said Phryne irritably.

“My  _point,_ Miss Fisher,” said Jack, his exasperated tone more than contradicted by the gentle way he held her, “is that this is something we can muddle through together. It’s not as though I know any more than you do—”

“I don’t know if I can be quite as—open—with my feelings,” said Phryne.

Jack’s fingers stopped. “Is that a problem?”

“Shouldn’t it be?”

Jack was quiet for a very long time. For a little while, Phryne thought he might have gone back to sleep. Then he said, “I don’t think it should, no. Phryne, I know you well enough to know how deeply you care, and I trust you when you say you want me coming after you. It’s enough for me.”

“Should it be?” Off Jack’s look (she couldn’t _see_ it, but she had felt him shift towards her, and she knew him well enough to know when he was _looking_ at her), Phryne elaborated clumsily, “You gave me up last year because I wasn’t enough—”

Jack drew in a sharp, shocked breath. So did Phryne. She didn’t know what she’d been meaning to say, but it certainly hadn’t been that.

 _You gave me up last year because I wasn’t enough._ Phryne had pretended, all through that terribly lonely few months, that she was angry at Jack for leaving. She had told Mac he was “running scared” and she had liked the way her anger tasted in her mouth, because it felt a damn sight better than being hurt. He had said _I would never ask you to change;_ she had heard _what you are doesn’t match what I need._

“I didn’t give you up last year because—”

“No, I know, I know,” said Phryne very fast, horribly embarrassed. Why was it that she lost all ability for subterfuge around Jack Robinson? “I know, it’s just—I was rarely, if ever, completely honest with you back then. I suppose I assumed that that was part of the reason why you found me so easy to leave.” It was meant as a joke, but fell flat. She winced. “Dear god, Jack, put me out of my misery, _everything_ I say seems wrong tonight—”

Jack tugged her a bit farther up the pillows and kissed her. It felt the same way it did when he placed a steadying hand at the small of her back, or when he directed a gentle, pointed look at her, or when he let his thumb brush against her wrist as they walked side by side. Phryne hadn’t realized before that kisses could be comforting, and almost didn’t want this one to end. But he pulled back, then said, “You know you were never easy to leave, Phryne. You know that.”

Phryne exhaled. “Yes,” she said.

“I left last year because I was in love with you,” said Jack, careful and quiet. Phryne stiffened; he squeezed her shoulder in a sweetly reassuring way. “I didn’t want to hurt you by bringing up feelings I believed you wouldn’t be able to return. That or I thought you’d laugh my feelings off, and I wasn’t sure if I could—”

“I wouldn’t have done that,” said Phryne, even though some part of her knew that she might have. All she remembered about that case was a lingering irritation with Jack, a feeling of _why on earth is he taking everything so seriously?_ She didn’t remember ever considering what it might have felt like for him to think her dead. Not for longer than a second, at least, because that had touched on something real and frightening, more serious than a nightcap after cases and a few meaningful looks across her parlor.

“Regardless,” said Jack. “I was afraid. Still am, as a matter of fact,” he laughed softly, “if only because I worry I feel more for you than you can return.”

“ _Highly_ unlikely,” said Phryne.

Jack rolled his eyes a little. “I wouldn’t have come to England if I wasn’t well aware of _that,_ ” he said.

“Yes, you would, because I asked,” said Phryne, giving him a beguiling smile and then kissing him just because. They were both smiling when she pulled away. “I might have laughed it off,” she said, more honestly, because his vulnerability had made her feel just _that_ much safer. “I think it would have been easier than addressing…” She trailed off.

“Addressing?” Jack prompted.

Phryne snuggled into his arms (a ridiculously soppy word, regardless of how well it described how _soft_ the Inspector was). She wasn’t sure how to continue without a rather flowery declaration of love, something she still didn’t feel ready for. “You know I—” she began, then coughed. “Um. You’re well aware, I’m sure—”

“Phryne,” said Jack. His mouth was twitching.

“No, no, just let me—”

“Phryne, you’re very bad at this,” said Jack, and he sounded positively adoring.

“Well, I should be able to get _better!”_ huffed Phryne. “For your sake _and_ for mine, Jack, I should like to be able to make ostentatious love declarations whenever I want!”

She was expecting Jack to do some kind of dramatic double-take at her intentions, but he just rolled his eyes a little and said, “Phryne, love isn’t ostentatious,” which started up a midnight discussion about how That’s Rich Coming From The Man Who Smothers Me In Shakespeare Quotes and It Isn’t Ostentatious If It’s Borrowed From The Bard.

Nothing was _quite_ resolved, but they fell asleep laughing.

* * *

 

They talked about it again over a _very_ late breakfast; they’d woken up relatively early, but nearly two years of sexual and romantic tension had been bound to explode somewhat spectacularly. After a _thorough_ exploration of her lover, Phryne brought up some bread and jam from the kitchen downstairs and they ate breakfast in bed.

“You look so rumpled,” she said happily, touching Jack’s messy hair. “I’m rather used to seeing you all buttoned up. I much prefer this.”

“Sadly, I can’t head down to City South clad only in a bedsheet, or I’d be happy to oblige,” said Jack easily, and gave Phryne a breathtakingly joyful smile in return.

It was astounding, knowing that she brought this much happiness to him just by being Phryne Fisher. It was astounding, because he had known her for years, he had never once hurt her, and he _loved_ her. She was beginning to realize how very much she wanted him in her life, and in this capacity, and in for the long haul. “I really am so very glad you came,” she said softly.

“Well,” said Jack. “You asked.”

“Would you do anything if I asked?” Phryne teased.

Jack seemed to seriously consider the question. “Within reason,” he said finally. “Though you seem to have generally compelling reasons for most of the things you do. Frustrating, yes, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t compelling.”

“Can I—” Phryne straddled his lap, delighting in the soft, pleased noise Jack made, “—compel you further, Inspector?”

Jack smiled a bit. “Always, Miss Fisher,” he said, and kissed her, and it felt like coming home.


End file.
